We Are Alive Forever More
by robyn redhead
Summary: Eve Matthews moves to Roarton in search of a fresh start in a new town, where she can forget the horrific things that happened to her during the Rising. But the people and PDS of Roarton force her to accept what has happened so she can eventually achieve closure. OC, no pairings. Set during series 2.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: I do not own In The Flesh, nor any of the characters and concepts used in it. They all belong to the brilliant Dominic Mitchell. _

Prologue.

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. This is both dreadful and natural.*

What is less natural, and infinitely more dreadful, is when this process is interrupted by some unseen, unknown force. A force that invades and threatens the natural with the supernatural. A force that stops the decomposing of the dead; stops the seemingly irreversible process-and reverses it. Reverses it to such an extent that those who were thought gone forever, return into the land of the living. Their voices, their laughter; all returned to them. The only thing that remains lost forever to the other side is the warmth they once knew. No warmth shall ever seep again from their bodies, no warm breath shall ever fog up a cold morning. No, that, it seems, is lost forever.

This unnatural process thus described is how I came to be reborn into a word that had been prematurely snatched from me at the age of 21.

'A tragedy', the local newspapers called it, when describing my parting from this earth. When a young person dies, there is always a fuss made. Millions of people die every day, and no one ever says a word, and then my death goes and gets a full double page spread with photos and everything, depicting the tragedy of my death.

A preventable tragedy, by all accounts, if the drunken driver of a Ford Mondeo hasn't ploughed straight through me as I crossed over the pedestrian crossing on a balmy summers evening. I was killed instantly. A young Indian couple discovered my body ten minutes later, and dialled an ambulance in some vague hope, and I am grateful to them, and to the paramedics, for trying to save a life that had clearly been violently extinguished.

I only knew all this from the long, poorly written account of my death in the local newspaper. I did not have the opportunity that some desire, to witness their own death. Nor did I get to see my own funeral, though I'm sure there were lots of tears and plenty of nice things said about me because that's what's done. There was a large turnout, apparently, though I've no idea from where. I had few friends at university, and even fewer left from school. I was not an active member of the community, and had little interaction with anyone, really. My family would have been there, of course, but we are a small group; just me, my younger brother and my parents.

Small, but so, so close.

It was not until six months after my death, in December of 2009, when my body was party decomposed in the earth around it, that I rose once again; defying human law and nature.

All I had known up until that point was nothing. Like a blank darkness, only not even that. It is strange, when you start to become aware of things once more. It is like in the morning when you wake up, and are never able to re-call when exactly you fell asleep, you only know that you have been so, and now your are not. It is like that, only on a more extreme scale.

You awake slowly, as though from a deep sleep; becoming aware of existence and the ability to think once more. All around is darkness, but not the darkness you have known before. It is in some way sharper; you are more aware of it, and this makes you feel panic. It is not natural for humans to be swamped in such blackness, and we instinctively fear the dark. In this panic you try to move; to get out of this heavy darkness, to find some light. As you move, your hands meet solid wood, and the panic increases as you conclude that you have been buried alive. But this panic is short lived, as the solid wood above you seems to give suddenly, and your hands meet thick, damp earth. This is solid too, but _moveable_. You push through it, not knowing how you are able to do this, but not _caring_. All that matters is breaking down this barrier between the pitch blackness of below, and whatever lies above, which you know you must reach, though you don't know why.**

That first breath of air, into lungs that have not been used in over six months, is a feeling no words can describe. It is dark up above; the sky is a deep blue. But compared to the ground below, you find yourself squinting in the moonlight. The realisation of what has happened; that feeling of being _alive_ once again, is one I have never had before, nor will ever know again.

What happened next is something I feel I cannot write about; partly because it is too dreadful and too painful, and partly because my memories of the events are blurred into a series of horrific flashbacks, with many blank spaces that I dare not think what happened.

My next series of solid memories; ones that are clear and sterile in my mind, are those of a treatment hospital, where I spent almost two years of my life*** trying to come to terms with what had happened. It is natural, I think, in these times of crisis and confusion, to turn to some greater authority; some divine ruling power. For many, this is God, but I have never had much faith in God, and had even less after what had happened to me, so instead I created my own authority figure, to talk to each night (in my head of course) to ask questions, and, above all, to ask for forgiveness. I named this power Dog, as a sort of anti-God, but I never heard anything back from Dog; not then, not ever.

The only answers I ever received during that time were from Doctor Nurobi, and Nurse Dixon, both of whom answered my questions with clinical clarity, but neither seemed willing to take on my emotional queries.

PDS-Partially Deceased Syndrome. That's the official name given to people like me. An impossible and supernatural occurrence that caused devastation everywhere, compressed down into three letters. I thought to myself; how can such a terrible thing be given such a simple, insignificant label? Our name might have been simple but the condition was anything but. Medication was our saviour. Without a carefully measured dose of a drug named _neurotryptaline, our condition would deteriorate into the rabid beasts we once were; what many people still of us as. And, it seemed, what we could still become. Medication was our saviour, but it could also be our downfall. A contrasting drug, named BlueOblivion, was becoming increasingly popular in gangs within the treatment centre. Its users were returned to their rabid state, before being carted off by the medical team, and rarely seen again. However, properly medicated, being PDS did not feel much different to how I had spent most of my life feeling; tired, vaguely confused, and with the constant feel of alienation. _

_In the treatment centre, there were lots of people like me- lots of others who had performed the impossible and returned from the dead. We were all treated together; herded up in some big warehouse equipped with plenty of medication and a few beds. For a long time I was frightened of the others; of the whites of their eyes and the grey of their skin. I had seen these same features reflected back in my own face, and it was the same fear I felt for myself, whenever I looked into their faces._

_This fear decreased after a while, partly due to the truth in the absurd phrase: "time heals all wounds", and partly because of the introduction of a psychotherapy group meeting. This was something that was started after I had been at the treatment centre for a little over a year. The medication was working, and my body was responding well physically to the rehabilitation. I was walking, talking, washing and writing as well as I had ever done when I was alive, and was fit and healthy, according to Doctor Nurobi. _

_What was responding less well, were the emotional side effects and psychological harm caused by dying, rising from my grave, and becoming a savage beast. I slept rarely; unable to block out the terrible sights that haunted me. I was frequently on edge; jumpy and frightened. I was not alone in my suffering, and the psychotherapy group was set up in order to address and solve some of these issues. We were encouraged to talk about the future, and almost forbidden to discuss the past._

_Mark, our non-PDS leader, was of little help. He took us off in small groups and made us all sit around and talk about our feelings and our innermost thoughts until we all felt quite stripped and naked, sat there in a circle of our peers. Mark would then focus on one of us in turn, and hand out the sort of advice you receive from an automated telephone message. It was rarely relevant, and never helpful. _

_But what I __did__ find helpful, was that, through this group, I met a fellow PDS sufferer, who became the closest thing I had to a friend during those long, lifeless days at the treatment centre. Her name was Olivia, and she was beautiful, even in death. But what was even more attractive about her was her outlook on our situation. _

_"Eve," she would say to me. "You must look upon this as a blessing; a gift from God. You have been given a second chance at life."_

_I was not really on speaking terms with God at that point, but I endeavoured to look at things from Olivia's point of view; try to absorb some of her positivity. And, slowly, part by part, I began to beat away my sorrows. My terrible nightmares were replaced by happy memories and optimism._

_But then one day, when I had just finished making my bed and was preparing for my daily walk, Olivia came to me in floods of joy. She was going home, it seemed. Her parents were coming at midday, and by 2 o'clock she would be gone forever. Her face was covered in a cover up mousse we had all been given and I was yet to try out, and her eyes sparkled with the help of her new, blue eye contacts. She looked so alive. _

_Several other people left that day; collected by emotional parents or joyous friends. Lots of us were now wearing the cover up mousse, and, in a way, it was strange to suddenly see ordinary looking faces in the people I knew. _

_But no tearful mother came to collect me and grasp __me__ in a tight hug, no joyous children jumped for joy around __me__, pleased to have their brother or sister back, and no stoic father patted __me__ on the back before leading his family back to the car; complete once more._

_"You'll get your chance," Nurse Dixon told me, when she saw me looking glumly down at the cars now purring away from the car park._

_But she was wrong. No one was coming for me. Not now, not ever. I would never see my family again. And why? Because I killed them._

_Never again would I hear the deep chuckle of my father, or the soothing voice of my mother, nor the sweet laughter of my young brother. Never again would I lay eyes upon their handsome, happy faces. And it was all my fault._

_Oh sure, at the treatment centre we are told several times a day that we must forget what we did in our untreated state. Told that we cannot be blamed for what we have done. But this is impossible for me. I will never forgive myself as long as I live which, considering my new immortality, could be an awfully long time. Sometimes, if I let my mind think too much about what has happened, it I allow it to start properly processing and digesting the events, then the grief becomes too much. The guilt physically suffocates me. _

_x-x-x_

_I got out of the treatment centre eventually, of course. They were not going to keep me there, taking up valuable space, simply because I had no family to come and collect me. I was assigned a guide, a middle-aged woman called Julie, who was to assist me in 'getting me back on my feet' as she called it. She was very efficient, but her enthusiasm bordered on nauseating, and so I was keen to keep our time together brief._

_"Evie Matthews, right?" she asked at our first meeting, clipboard in one hand, fountain pen in the other._

_"It's just Eve," I said, hurriedly. My dad was the only one to call me Evie, and it was painful to hear. _

_Julie smiled widely. "Eve," she corrected. _

_We spoke for a few minutes about the treatment and medication, and how that was working out for me. I told her it was fine. She asked if there were any problems, and I said no._

_"Now we come on to the subject of your rehoming," said Julie, speaking as though I were a dog up for adoption. "We like PDS sufferers to go back to their families ideally, where they can be looked after in a comfortable, familiar setting for them."_

_I said nothing. Julie looked down at her clipboard and continued. "Now, your immediate family are, as I understand, now deceased."_

_Her words hit me like knives, but Julie seemed unaware. She just kept looking from me to her clipboard of notes as she kept up her chatter. _

_"But is there any extended family? I see you have a second cousin living in your hometown. Perhaps you could stay with them?"_

_She was talking about Simon. He and his wife Kira lived about ten minutes from where I had lived with my family. It would be too painful to return there, even if I was accepted by them after what had happened. _

_"No," I said, shortly. "No, that won't do at all. I-_

_I didn't want to tell Julie that I could not go back to my hometown, that I could not bear that grief and guilt. It went against the 'integrating the PDS' scheme that was now underway at the treatment centre. _

_"I want a fresh start," I said instead. "I'm 21 now, I want to move forward."_

_Julie smiled. "You sound like my Jessie," she said. "Only sixteen and already wanting to move out! Now, I understand you young people wanting your independence, but now probably isn't a good time for you. You need a safe and secure setting for your rehabilitation, surrounded by people who know and trust you. Now, how's about we get you set up your cousin, just for a couple of months, and then you can have time to think about moving?"_

_Julie was already starting to write down the details of Simon's address, taking my silence as a yes._

_"No!" I said, reaching across and snatching the pen in her hand. I saw her flinch at my cold touch, saw a flash of fear in her eyes and I knew, then, that deep down, she was still afraid of us. _

_"Sorry," I muttered, retracting my hand. "It's just-please. I want to live somewhere else. Anywhere. Somewhere I can really, uh…throw myself into the community, you know?"_

_This was a lie, but I could tell my words had had the desired effect on Julie. The fear left her face and her eyes brightened. _

_"Eve, it's so nice you're so keen to become a member of the community again. If you think a fresh start, a new town, will help you do this, then don't worry. I can help you. I will look into it for you."_

_I thanked Julie at the end of this first meeting, and by the following week, she sought me out, telling me she had news that she was obviously pleased about._

_"Eve, I've found you the perfect rehabilitation home. Obviously you can say no, but I do think this is the best option for you. It's in the town of Roarton, north of here, and there are lots of other PDS sufferers returning there, so you wouldn't be alone."_

_I didn't like the sound of being near lots of other PDS people; I was hoping to largely forget the whole ordeal after I left the treatment centre. But Roarton sounded far away from my home in Hertfordshire, and so I said yes._

_I was to live with an elderly woman by the name of Mrs Gibbs, who had agreed to house me and look after the administration of my neurotryptaline, in return for a few manual jobs that she was unable to do anymore due to a hip replacement. According to Julie, she was not bothered at all by the fact that I was PDS, her only concern was whether I liked cats and would I be strong enough to carry her shopping for her. As I ticked both of these boxes, it was off to Roarton with me, in Julie's little smart car, in November of 2012.****_

Notes:

*Prose taken from Diane Setterfield's _The Thirteenth Tale._

**Concept and description taken from Kieran's account of his rising in Series 2, Episode 4.

***Not sure how long the PDS actually stayed in the treatment centre for, so I just made it 2 years.

****I'm not sure of the actual dates used in the series.


	2. Chapter One

_Disclaimer: I do not own In The Flesh, nor any of the characters and concepts used in it. They all belong to the brilliant Dominic Mitchell. _

Chapter One

It is thus that I like to begin; a month after I had moved in with Mrs Gibbs and her four cats. The arrangement, though not unpleasant, was beginning to become problematic. It was not Mrs Gibbs herself; I liked the old lady with her amusing anecdotes and her regimented routings. But what I liked most about Mrs Gibbs was her lack of interest in myself. She never asked a single question about me or my life, and barely mentioned the fact that I was PDS. It only really had to be addressed when she was administrating my neurotryptaline drug. Other than that, it was as if nothing had ever happened. I existed only to Mrs Gibbs as a form of manual labour; someone to clean her house, feed her cats, do her shopping; that sort of thing. We kept mostly to ourselves; she in the living room watching daytime television and doing crosswords, and I in my bedroom, lying on the bed and trying consciously to think about nothing at all.

No, it was not Mrs Gibbs that was the problem, it was Roarton itself. The town was small in size and number and, while it offered all the conveniences one could want; pub, shop, school, library, town hall, doctor's surgery, etc, its residents were the sorts of people who made it their priority to know just about everything about everyone. Nosy neighbours peering over garden fences, spying at the windows. Gossiping women whispering at the supermarket, and gossiping men discussing goings on over a pint in the pub. Julie had been right about Roarton being home to a lot of PDS sufferers, but the regular townsfolk did not take kindly to them, nor, it seemed, to strangers. As I was both, I was not destined to be a success with the locals.

The only person other than Mrs Gibbs who showed me politeness and kindness was a woman named Shirley Wilson. She was a nurse up at the local doctor's surgery, and she told me that, following the Rising, she had trained to become a private nurse specialising in PDS. She visited the homes of PDS sufferers on a weekly basis, and was there to give Mrs Gibbs advice on my treatment and condition, and to answer any of my medical queries such as;

"If I cut off all of my hair, will it ever grow back?"

"I know I can't get sick anymore, but am I still allergic to pollen?"

and

"Does anyone know what actually caused the Rising?"

Mrs Wilson's answers were usually patient, calm, and in the negative. No, my hair would not grow back. No, I no longer suffered from allergies. And no, she did not know why the Rising had happened. I enjoyed my weekly chats with Shirley Wilson; the simple and mundane things we usually found to talk about helped take my mind off everything else. But apart from her, and the comforting consistency of Mrs Gibbs, I did not seem to be liked by the people of Roarton.

I did not mind this especially; I did not desire popularity or friendship, but the constant points and whispers and general animosity could not help but be daily reminders of _what_ I was, and what I had done. I therefore decided, a month after arriving in Roarton, that I needed to leave. Julie had left her contact details with me for what she called 'emergencies'. I think she was required to do this by law, and I did not take it as a request to keep in touch. Nevertheless, I used Mrs Gibbs' landline to call Julie and tell her things were not working out, and that I wanted to leave Roarton. I would even had said that I was willing to return to the treatment centre in Norfolk until another appropriate home could be established for me, but I never got that far. Julie was out, and so I left a message on her answer machine asking simply that she call me back when she could. It had been a Friday night, and presumably Julie was out enjoying herself in a way only the living can.

The next morning, I was up early, but so was Mrs Gibbs. I could hear her watching breakfast tv in the living room as I fussed about in the kitchen fetching some milk for the cats. They didn't deserve it, though, For I had found some chewed up pieces of blue plastic in the bathroom that morning that were once my colour eye contacts. I always left them in their box overnight, but had clearly not sealed it properly the previous evening. I was now without contact lenses, and made a mental note to speak with Shirley Wilson about getting another pair before I left.

Reaching for the milk, and wondering when Julie might phone, I got the shock of my life when the doorbell rang; a shrieking, clanging noise that I had never heard before. Mrs Gibbs never got any visitors, other than Mrs Wilson for me, and she always knocked gently on the door. The shock of the noise made me jump; the milk bottle slipping from my hand and smashing to the floor, much to the delight of the cats, who flocked to the spilt milk and began lapping at it greedily.

I was dimly aware of Mrs Gibbs in the hallway, answering the door, but it was not until I heard my own name mentioned that I stopped midway through mopping my trouser leg with a tea towel, and paused to listen.

"I understand you're housing a PDS suffered here, Mrs Gibbs," a woman's voice; clipped and to-the-point. "A Miss Eve Matthews, is that right?"

"Eh?" came the sound of Mrs Gibbs' confusion. "Is that you, Philip? You've grown since I last saw you!"

"Eve Matthews," cut in the female voice. "She's living here, is she not?"

"Aye, that's right," said Mrs Gibbs. "I expect it's her you'll be wanting to see? Can't remember the last time someone came to the door to see _me_." And then, calling loudly; "Eve! People at the door for you!"

Unable to avoid our guests any longer, I made my way out into the hall, grabbing a pair of large, dark sunglasses to disguise my contactless eyes and dabbing pointlessly at the dark stain on my jeans. Standing on the threshold was a man who I recognised from the area, but whose name I did not know, and a tall, black woman who I'd never seen before in my life.

"Eve Matthews?" she said, expectantly. I hesitated before nodding. Mrs Gibbs shuffled away, leaving me alone with the two strangers.

"Eve, very pleased to meet you," the woman continued, smiling with unfeeling eyes. "I'm Maxine Martin, local MP, and this is Philip Wilson, of the local council. It is a pleasure to welcome you to the town of Roarton."

This welcome was coming about four weeks late, I thought, and quickly felt it necessary to inform Miss Martin of my imminent departure.

"That's very kind of you," I said. "But I'm afraid I shan't be around much longer. You see, I'm leaving Roarton very soon-probably in the next few days."

Hopefully, I thought, aware of the strange looks Philip Wilson was giving me, no doubt because of the dark sunglasses on a grey December morning.

"Oh, but that's quite impossible," said Maxine Martin, frowning.

"Impossible?" I said. "Why?"

"No travel is permitted outside the city until further notice."

Panic rose in me. "Why?" I said, quickly. "What's happened?" Horrific images of a second Riding flashed before my eyes.

But Maxine Martin was smiling again. "Oh nothing's _happened_," she said. "It's just we need to keep Roarton's PDS in Roarton for the time being."

I let out a breath in relief that we were not all under attack or something, but then Maxine Martin's words sank in.

"We can't leave?" I said. "_I_ can't leave?"

"It will all be explained at the meeting this afternoon," said Philip Wilson quickly.

"Meeting?"

"Yes," said Maxine. "Four o'clock, town hall. Attendance is mandatory." Her and Philip were leaving now, edging away from the doorstep and back out into the grey street. "Welcome to Roarton, Eve."

Some welcome, I thought, slamming the door after them. Just when I had made up my mind to leave, it seemed as I were now trapped in Roarton. I would attend the meeting that afternoon, I thought, and try to get a word with Maxine martin. I was sure, once I properly explained my situation, that she would let me go. After all, I wasn't truly one of 'Roarton's PDS', as she called them. I had only lived there a month! Perhaps I could try talking to Philip Wilson about it instead. He seemed less determined than the MP. It occurred to me then that Philip might be the son of Shirley Wilson. I was sure she had mentioned she had a son. Well, I thought, that was even better; I got on well with the kind Mrs Wilson, and could use this to my advantage when dealing with her son.

x-x-x

I had never been in the town hall before, but it looked very much like any other village hall I had ever been in. There was a notice board informing residents of the upcoming events, and a stage at one end with large, moth-eaten curtains pinned either side. Rows of plastic chairs had been set up on the hard floor, all facing the stage, where a greasy looking man was fumbling with a television set. I looked at my watch; it was ten to. Several of the chairs were already occupied; by clusters of PDS sufferers all talking quietly together. I knew some of them by sight, but none of them by name, and so positioned myself in a lonely position right at the back, where I could observe everyone through my dark sunglasses which I refused to remove due to a lack of contact lenses.

"Hi!" said someone suddenly, appearing in front of me as if by magic. "That seat taken?"

Before waiting for me to reply, he settled himself in the plastic seat beside me. He was tall and lanky; his long legs stretched out in front of him. He had fair hair that was sort of curly and overgrown. He was PDS, and there was a faint mark on his neck where he had streaked his cover-up mousse; revealing the white skin beneath.

"I'm Johnson Harris," he said, extending a hand that I didn't take. "Didn't I see you in here the other day? At bingo night?"

"I've Eve," I said. "And no, you didn't."

"Oh, that's disappointing," he said, not looking disappointed at all. His eyes were all over the place; looking about the room at everything and everyone. "So go on then," he said. "How'd _you_ snuff it? I bet you're _dying_ to tell me, ha! Get it?"

I narrowed my eyes at this audacious stranger. I had always considered death to be a sensitive subject, even in life. "I was killed by a drunk driver," I said, shortly. "Hit by his car and killed instantly."

"Oh, that sucks," said Johnson Harris. "At least it was quick. I lingered for a long time until it finally got me. The cancer, I mean."

I didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," I said, eventually.

"Hey man, that's ok," said Johnson Harris, smiling widely and slapping me on the back. I winced. "We're all one and the same, aren't we? And cool shades, by the way! Is that to keep off the glare of the 60 watt light bulb over there?"

I glared at him, though he couldn't tell thanks to the glasses.

"Shove off," I said. "Unless you have a spare set of contacts in your pocket," I looked at his scruffy jeans and concluded; "Unlikely."

"No, I haven't actually," said Johnson thoughtfully. "You can borrow one of mine though, if you want."

I was not even going to justify this with a response. A moment's silence later, and Johnson Harris started up again;

"So why do you think they've got all us PDS sufferers together for?" he was looking around again at the now almost full room.

"Don't use that word," I said, shortly.

"What word?"

""Sufferers"" I indicated. "It makes it sound as though we're not responsible."

"But we're not though, are we?"

"Aren't we?"

I was saved from any further discussion by the greasy looking man calling us to attention by banging loudly on the floor with a stick.

"Quiet! Listen up!"

A hush settled about the room. I could see Maxine Martin hovering at the side of the stage, looking expectantly at Philip Wilson who was stood by the television set on the stage. He cleared his throat.

"Yes, thank you Dean," he said to the greasy man before addressing the people sat below him. "I expect you'd all quite like to know what you're here for," said Philip, not quite meeting the eyes of anyone in the room, but instead looking just over us at the blank wall behind.

"Yeah, too right we would!" yelled a porky, middle-aged man, waving his fist in the air. "What's all this about me not being able to get a train out of the city?"

Philip glanced down at some pieces of paper clutched in his hand, and then turned to the other man, Dean, for assistance.

"This short video should explain things," said Dean. "Please sit back and enjoy, and save any questions until the end."

"Oh, I love movie time," whispered Johnson Harris, as the lights were dimmed and Philip pressed play on the video player.

"Hi, I'm Pete and I'm PDS," began the sickening cheesy video, depicting a man looking absurdly cheerful; grinning widely from a face that was covered in way too much cover-up mousse. "But I haven't let that get in the way of achieving. The new government Give Back scheme helps me to do just this, while allowing me to give a little something back to a community I so savagely tore apart in my untreated state." *

For a full fifteen minutes we watched PDS Pete working in a number of community service jobs, usually, I thought, reserved for those on probation. Pete performed all his tasks cheerfully, grinning like a madman as he showed us how cleaning the floor of a local library really gave him a sense of _purpose_.

"At the end of the scheme, we receive these fantastic certificates of citizenship, which welcome us back into the community."

There was Pere shaking hands with someone that looked oddly like the Dean of Social Sciences at my university.

"Don't let PDS get in the way of your life," said Pete. "Be like me and Give Back today!"

The film came to an end, and the lights went back up. Everyone was sat in a sort of stunned silence.

"So," Philip broke in. "Are there any questions?"

"Yes there bloody are!" called out an elderly woman. "I retired over fifteen years ago! Why do I need to go back and work now?"

"Yeah," said another man. "I wash windows now and get paid for it! Do you expect me to do it now for free?"

Maxine Martin now stepped onto the stage.

"The Give Back scheme," she began. "Is a great way for you all to ease gently back into the community and prove to yourself and others what you're really capable of."

There were more murmured groans.

"And," continued Maxine, raising her voice slightly over the babble. "It is _not_ optional."

She smiled, and then nodded to Philip and Dean, indicating them to continue.

"Right," said Philip. "When I read out your name, you're to go and collect a tabard and timetable from Dean, and then you're free to leave. Everyone's due back here tomorrow at ten for the first session."

There were more grumbles and scraping of chairs as Philip began reading names out loud. Once Johnson Harris and I had collected out timetables and hideous orange tabards, I hung back from the throng that was heading towards the door, wanting to speak to Philip Wilson. Maxine Martine was nowhere to be seen. Annoyingly, Johnson Harris stayed with me, and kept up a constant stream of chatter about how _he_ was actually looking forward to the Give Back scheme; how it would give him something to do for the long days of eternity.

"Excuse me," I said, cutting across him mid-sentence. "I've got to have a word with Philip Wilson."

Johnson shrugged. "I'll come too."

"No, that's ok," I said quickly, trying to be polite but finding it difficult. "You go on."

"Nah, you're alright," said Johnson infuriatingly.

"Fine," I muttered, giving up.

I strode over to where Philip was tidying up some papers at a desk.

"Hi," I said, when he looked up. "I was wondering if I might have a word?"

Philip looked from me to Johnson Harris, and then behind him at the cupboard door which was ajar.

"Alright," he said, but it will have to be quick." A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his forehead.

"Well, it's just that I won't be able to complete the Give Back scheme," I said, simply.

"You have to," said Philip, glancing at the cupboard door again. "Those are the rules."

"But I'll be leaving Roarton very soon, so surely there's no point me starting it at all?"

"No PDS travel is permitted," said Philip, lowering his voice. "Miss Martin explained to you this morning-

"But that's not fair!" I cried. "How can you keep me here when I neither lived nor died here? Look, I promise I'll complete the PDS scheme, but not here. Not in Roarton. Just let me-

I stopped. The cupboard door had swung open and Maxine Martin stepped out of it.

"What is going on here?" she asked, looking from myself to Philip and back again; eyebrows raised in expectation.

"I don't want to stay here," I began. "I want to leave Roarton- I _need_ to leave Roarton."

Maxine frowned. "You know that's not allowed," she said. "You must complete the Give Back scheme just like everybody else."

"But…" I turned desperately to Philip who was now sweating profusely. "But I know your mum, Philip. She's very nice, she would tell you that-

"Excuse me," cut across Maxine Martin, coldly. "I hope you're not suggesting that Mrs Wilson would speak out against the law?"

"No, not at all," I said, quickly. "It's just that she knows me well, and-

"Mrs Wilson treats _all_ the PDS sufferers in Roarton," interrupted Maxine again. "I do not suppose she knows you any better than any of her other patients. Now," she said, handing some paper to Philip and implying our conversation was clearly over. "If you could hand these out to all the-

_Wham_. I banged my hand down on Philip's table, crumpling the timetable in my fist.

"_No_," I said, feeling anger swelling inside me. "I _will_ not be ignored. I _insist_ that you-

"Let's continue this conversation inside my office," said Maxine, shortly. She was cool and calm in comparison to my burning rage. She was utterly collected; and I was coming apart at the seams. She gestured to the cupboard, and I, forgetting completely about Johnson Harris, followed her inside.

The cupboard, it seemed, had been transformed into a sort of makeshift office, with a cracked leather chair and a scrubbed wooden table that was piled high with stacks of paper and filing systems. Maxine closed the door before settling herself in the chair and turning to face me.

"Now," she said. "We're not going to have any more trouble, are we?"

I looked at Maxine Martin's stern, determined face, glanced to where her hand lay dangerously close to a rabid-Taser like the ones used for trouble makers in the treatment centre, and I knew I was beat.

I shook my head.

"You'll look me in the eye when you're speaking to me, Eve," said Maxine gesturing to take my glasses off. I did, and she recoiled.

"You are required to wear your contact lenses at all times," she said.

"I know," I said, looking at the floor. All of my energy and anger seemed to have drained away and I felt suddenly very tired. "I need a new set, but I haven't been able to ask Mrs Wilson yet."

"Well be sure that you do so soon," said Maxine. "We can't have you going around like that, scaring the locals. Now, seeing as it seems we might have some trouble with your co-operation, I am upping your community service hours by twenty percent for the rest of the week. You'll be signing in here at 8am every day. When you've proven that you can abide these rules, we'll talk again."

I was aghast. "8am?!" I said. "But what about Mrs Gibbs? I have to do jobs for her or she won't let me stay with her anymore!"

"You should have thought about that before you decided to be impertinent," said Maxine, taking my crumpled timetable and scrawling a notes at the top before handing it back.

"I know you managed to get Julie Evans at the treatment centre wrapped around your little finger," she said, standing to dismiss me from her office. "But you won't have such luck with me, I'm afraid."

"How do you know about Julie?" I asked, shocked.

"Trust me," said Maxine. "I know a lot more about you all then you think I do."

She ushered me back out into the hall with a slight push, and then shut the door in my face. The town hall was now virtually empty. Dean Stanton was there stacking the chairs back against the wall, and Philip Wilson was sat at his desk looking down at his hands. I walked out of the open doors without a word to either of them, and out into the grey street, where the surrounding houses were covered by a thick fog. I took great breaths of cold air and tried to gather my thoughts in a calm and rational way. The Give Back scheme had interfered with my plans to leave Roarton; there was no doubt about that. But what was bothering me more was Maxine Martin. I disliked the MP, and everything she stood form, and this feeling was no doubt mutual. I resented Maxine Martin the power she had over the people of Roarton, and the power she apparently now had over me. I hated the way she spoke to me, and about me. But most of all, I hated the fact that I was just a little scared of her.

"Oi!" I wheeled around. As I had been thinking, I had perched absentmindedly on a garden wall, and the owner of said garden was now stood in their doorway, brandishing a rolling pin.

"Clear off!" she yelled. "I won't have you lot using my wall as a seat. Get off!"

I stood up quickly. The lady was old, but she looked very fierce. She reminded me somewhat of-

_Mrs Gibbs!_

I looked down at my watch, already hurrying away down the street. It was past 6 o'clock. Mrs Gibbs would have been expecting her dinner ages ago.

Mrs Gibbs was actually very kind about my lateness; "it's alright, dear, I had a pot noodle", and was equally understanding about the fact that I would be busy much of the day now with the Give Back scheme.

"Well it sounds like you've had quite a day of it!" she said. "Let's have a quiet night in now with Inspector Morse. I'll make us some hot chocolate."

This sounded so inviting that I forgot about not being able to eat or drink, and ended up having a cosy time with Mrs Gibbs; watching television with the fire on full blast, drinking a hot chocolate that I would spend all night vomiting into the bathroom sink.

Notes:

*I can't remember what the actual video in the episode entailed, so I sort of made it up.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The next morning I woke, for the first time in what felt like ages, to the sound of a ringing alarm clock. The sound cut through me like a knife, and I banged quickly on the clock to silence it. My bedroom was still swamped in darkness, but I could just about make out a lump at the bottom of my bed where two of Mrs Gibbs' cats had snuck in during the night. I groaned and looked at the clock. 7.15 am. Just long enough to make sure everything was ready for when Mrs Gibbs got up at 9, and make it to the town hall on time. Following the previous day's encounter with Maxine Martin, I did not fancy going against the MP's instruction and being late.

Downstairs, I poured some tea into a thermos for Mrs Gibbs, fed the four cats who were now prowling about my feet, and did up the dishes from the previous evening. The sight of the hot chocolate mugs turned my dead stomach. I looked in the cupboards and made a quick shopping list that I planned to pick up once I was finished for the day. Back upstairs, I began to get ready. I had few clothes with me in Roarton. There was the outfit I had been buried in, plus some second-hand items from the treatment centre that I'd been given for my transportation from Norfolk. In my first week, I had made several trips to the city on the bus to buy some more clothes, but a lack of money and general disinterest meant that my wardrobe was still virtually empty. I pulled on an old jumper of Mrs Gibbs', and turned my attention to my face. I applied the cover-up mousse as I always did; using a tiny handbag mirror to that I just see each part of my face bit by bit, rather than face the horror of the whole thing. If I ever catch sight of myself in a full mirror, I'm always shocked at how different the picture in my head is compared to my face in the mirror, and I automatically recoil at the terrible collision of imagination and reality*.

Cover-up mousse applied, I reached automatically for the plastic container containing my contact lenses, before remembering that they had been the latest victims of Mrs Gibbs' greedy cats. Sighing, I scribbled a note to Mrs Gibbs telling her where her breakfast was (the microwave) and informing her when I should be home. This done, I have one last glance around the still, empty house, and stepped out into the cold, dark morning.

As I was no longer living, external forces such as heat or cold had little influence on me, but I could tell the temperature was below freezing because of the thick frost that covered the car windscreens and crunched underfoot. Just as the sun was pitifully attempting to dawn on what seemed to be another cold, grey day, I reached the town hall. The doors were already open, and inside I found Philip Wilson moving chairs around and Dean Stanton looking bleary eyed and eating toast. There was another person there though; a girl with her back to me, long dark hair cascading down the pack of a patchwork frock. She turned at the sound of me entering, and I saw that she was a PDS sufferer who had similarly mislaid their contact lenses. And, it seemed, their cover-up mousse. Mottled white skin was stretched over her otherwise beautiful face.

"Hello," I said, looking at the clock. It was a little after 8. "Were you made to come in early too?"

The girl did not look like the sort of person who would agree to the Give Back scheme easily either.

"What?" she said. "What do you mean?"

"Well, about coming in earlier than the others-

"What?" The girl turned to address her next words to Philip. "You told me we had to be here at 8! You said the timings had changed and we had to come in earlier?"

"Well…" said Philip, looking tongue-tied and fumbling with the knot of his tie. "Perhaps not _exactly_ all of you-

The girl threw up her hands dramatically. "Oh!" she said. "That's just _great_. You drag me here hours early for _no_ reason, and then I find out that no one else is coming except _you_ lot."

I was mildly offended. I mean, _I_ was there.

"Well, you're all we need," said Dean, who had finished his toast and was now rummaging in an old cupboard. He brought out a mop and two buckets and shoved them into our hands. "This floor needs cleaning; you've got until the rest of you lot arrive to get it done."

He walked away. The other girl looked disgusted.

"_Clean_ the floor?" she called. "That's like slave labour! No way are we doing that!" I had the tendency to agree. The town hall floor was remarkably sticky and dusty.

"Well you won't get your completion stamps then, will you?" Dean called back, his head now back in the cupboard.

"Completion stamps?" I said, suddenly interested. The girl turned to look at me in surprise. I think she had quite forgotten I was there. "What are they?"

"On your timetables," said Philip, quickly. "You get your stamps when you've completed a designated number of hours of community service. It all gets logged."

"Yeah," said Dean. "And if you don't do it-you don't get your stamp. Simple as."

"Oooh, like _so_ primary school," said the girl, rolling her eyes.

I, however, was not sure I liked the idea of Maxine Martin finding out I hadn't complied. I didn't want her to find reason to give me any more hours of work.

"Oh, come on," I muttered to the other girl. "Let's just get it done."

She looked at me, affronted. "What? Do what they tell us to? Just because they have the power of _stamps_? I thought you'd be more rebellious, what with you abstaining from the contact lens rule."

"I am not _abstaining_," I said. "My contact lenses met with a tragic accident. I'm waiting for a new pair. I don't rebel-not intentionally, anyway." I was thinking of my actions the previous day.

"Oh," said the girl, looking disappointed and a little disgusted at my words. "Well if _you_ want to stay and do as you're told and get your little _stamp_ like a good girl, then _fine_. But don't expect _me_ to do so."

She then flounced out of the town hall, skirts swishing in her wake. No one made to stop her, though Philip looked as if he might have liked to.

"I'd hurry up with that floor, if I were you," called Dean. "Now there's only one of you, it'll take that much longer."

x-x-x

By the time that the others started to filter in through the door, I was exhausted, and I'm sure my body would have been aching had I not been unable to feel anything anymore. I looked angrily at everyone who came in; treading footprints over the spotless surface. When the girl from earlier flounced in with some of her friends, I avoided her eye, but I could still feel her stare. She made me feel embarrassed and ashamed at having followed my orders and submitted myself. But it was not easy to feel rebellious with the memories of Maxine Martin's seemingly inside knowledge of my actions still resonating in my head. The pain of the morning's work had also reminded me that, while no punishment could ever be adequate for the crime I had committed, perhaps these menial tasks could be a start.

"Hi!" came a voice I instantly recognised. "Missed you yesterday."

Johnson Harris was striding towards me, Give Back scheme tabard stretched proudly across his chest and grinning widely. With my mind on other things, I had completely forgotten about Johnson right up until that moment.

"Hello," I said. "Yes, sorry about that. But it was important that I spoke to Miss Martin."

Johnson looked me up and down, taking in the mop and bucket at my feet and tabard crumpled over my jumper. "Guess it didn't go too well."

I sighed. "No, no it didn't. Not only am I not allowed to leave Roarton, but I've got to do more hours of this stupid scheme."

"Don't call it stupid," said Johnson as we took our seats. "_I'm_ looking forward to it."

"_You_ didn't just spend nearly two hours scrubbing and polishing the floor."

We took our seats. I noticed that Johnson Harris was wearing new trainers for the occasion; their soles bright and white. He was sat up straight and eager, but he was about the only one who was. Everyone else was slouched in their seats, glaring at Philip and Dean.

"Can I have your attention, please?" said Philip, and the room fell silent. "Thank you. Now, today is going to be a bit more of an introduction session to the Give Back scheme," he looked down at his notes. "There's team building this morning, and then everyone's due up at the woods to help dig the trench for a fence. Tomorrow you'll all be split into smaller groups and assigned tasks. Is that clear? Are there any questions?"

I had several, including _why_ we were being subjected to 'team building', but I kept quiet.

"Good," said Dean, when no one said anything. "Right, I'm going to give you a number, one to four. Number one's, you're to stay here, two's on the stage, three's over by the door, and four's out in the garden."

The 'garden', it transpired, was really more of a fenced in yard at the back of the town hall, which housed a few smelly rubbish bins and an old basketball hoop. There were a few broken flower pots which were no doubt home to flowers in summer, but on the cold December morning, they were depressingly bare. I stood out there with the other 'fours', wishing myself anywhere else. As well as the bleak scenery, there was a man out there to greet us, whom I vaguely recognised, wearing a khaki cap and matching jacket.

"Alright, listen up," he said gruffly, when the ten of us had all assembled. "I don't want to be here anymore than you lot do, but those are the rules." He glared round at us accusingly, as though we had _asked_ him to do this with us.

"I'm Gary," he continued. "Now, we're going to play a game. But it's not fun. Just some shite they've come up with to amuse you for a bit."

He reached down and picked up a basketball that had been sat at his feet. My heart sank lower. I hated sports of most kinds. I wondered if we were going to be made to shoot goals. The old hoop did not look like it could take much more.

"Right, get in a circle," Gary ordered. "And label yourselves one to ten."

There was much shuffling and murmured discussion about who wanted to be what number. After several moments, Gary sighed audibly and said, exasperated, "For Christ's sake, hurry up! It's not difficult!"

A few seconds later and we were settled. I was stood between the elderly lady who had called out at the meeting the previous name, and whose name, she told me, was Maureen, and a tall man who had ignored the rules about cover-up mousse and contacts and was glaring at Gary through wide, white eyes.

"Ok," said Gary. "Now I'm only gonna explain this _once_. Right, so just say _I'm_ number one," he slotted himself into the circle. "I'll say 'PDS 1 to…' and then you say another number, like 'PDS 1 to PDS 4'" He gestured to the man stood beside me. "And then you throw the ball to them." He threw the ball, hard, at the man next to me, who caught it. "Now," said Gary. "_You_ say 'Rotter 4 to-_sorry_," he corrected. " '_PDS_ 4, to PDS 2, or whoever."

His slip up had clearly not been accidental. The man next to me glared further. "PDS 4," he said, in a low voice. "To number 1 bastard," he threw the ball back to Gary who, caught by surprise, ended up getting hit in the chest. He scowled, picking the ball up off the floor. It looked like he was about to start something, but then PDS 8 piped up;

"Excuse me," he was a scrawny guy, with thick glasses and a nervous expression. "What exactly is the point of this, uh…this game?"

"To learn to keep your wits about you, four-eyes," snapped Gary, jobbing the ball at the face of the boy, before storming out of the back gate, sending a furious look at all of us.

After about five minutes of throwing the ball to each other, we gave up on what the man beside me dubbed "absolute shit", and trooped back inside. Everyone seemed much more animated inside the town hall. There was a group by the door who seemed to be playing charades with Dean, the group on the stage were apparently mediating, and in the middle I saw Johnson Harris energetically dancing a two-step with the dark haired girl from earlier, with Philip providing music for them from a small stereo system.

"Hi," I said, going over to them as they came to a break in their dance. "Looks like you're having fun."

Johnson grinned. "Amy," he turned to the girl. "This is my friend, Eve."

"We've already met," I started to explain, but Amy's gaze was suddenly directed behind me, and she pushed past us to enthusiastically greet the tall, pale man from my group.

"Simon!" she said, throwing her arms around his neck.

I turned away, embarrassed as usual by public displays of affection. I had loved my family more than anything else in the world, but we rarely kissed or hugged in publish, and seldom voiced 'I love you' to one another. Looking back, I wished we had.

"So," I turned my attention to Johnson Harris. "This looks like fun."

He grinned. "Yeah, I suppose it is! I think we all move around in a minute. I'm looking forward to trying all the other activities, aren't you?"

I looked around. "Well," I said. "I wouldn't get your hopes up for the garden activity. Gary who's running it has pissed off somewhere. Doubt he'll be back."

Johnson looked at me curiously. "Gary?" he said. "Gary Kendal?"

I shrugged. "How should I know?" Johnson's usually cheerful face was suddenly grave. "Why? What's up?"

"He was in the sixth form when I first joined the secondary school here**. He's a nasty piece of work."

I thought of the aggressive way Gary had thrown the basketball at the boy in glasses. Yes, that sounded like him.

"Hm," I said. "He certainly doesn't seem to like the PDS very much."

My eyes drifted to where Simon was now engrossed in a conversation with Amy.

"Think the feeling's mutual, though," I said.

A whistle blew suddenly. "Right" called Dean. "All change!"


End file.
